


A Good Man Went to War

by NothingYouCouldLove



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bromance, Character Death, Drama, Fluff and Angst, Government Resistance, Horrific Imagery, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, My First AO3 Post, My First Work in This Fandom, NYCL, Non-Consensual Violence, Post Reichenbach, Rebellion, Resistance, Suspense, Torture, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, Work In Progress, extreme violence, violent imagery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:03:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingYouCouldLove/pseuds/NothingYouCouldLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty has gained the title of Prime Minister, prompting a rebellion against everything he's done to make the lives of his citizens hell. Leading the rebellion group is John Watson. As time goes on though, more and more surprises pop up and not all of them are good or wanted. Some of them are even horrifying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface & Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will try to update this on here frequently as to be caught up with where it is on deviantART. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> This is also on my deviantART.

_Preface_

 

"Stop it! Stop talking using his voice! You're not him, you're not John Watson! Who are you?!"

 

_Chapter 1_

_Two and a Half Months Ago..._

 

From a dark corner outside of the British Parliament Building, a pair of brown eyes peered into the moonlit path before the front entryway. The path was lined with military men as if the Queen herself had ordered it to be so. After the attempted raid the week before though, it should have been seen as an inevitability.

A sigh accompanied the eyes at the sight of the military men. They looked suddenly disappointed at what the sight meant.

The man the eyes belonged to raised a handheld radio near his mouth. "Fili, Kili," he whispered harshly, "the mission's being aborted."

Another male voice came back over the radio: "After all the preparations?! Why?!"

"Too many guards," he replied. "We'll have to try again another night."

"Right Bilbo."

He ground his teeth together at the alias. "How many times do I have to tell you to call me Holmes?" He asked, irritated.

"You call us Fili and Kili, so you're Bilbo."

"Deal with it," a third male voice chimed in.

"Bilbo" sighed again and shoved the radio back into his pocket before making a hasty retreat.

Now in the light of the full moon, his features could clearly be seen to anyone who cared to look in his direction. He had short blonde-brown hair lightly streaked with the beginning of gray hair and a perfectly round face marked with the stress of the past few months in the form of wrinkles accented this. He was of average height, though he wore a long black trench coat to appear to be thinner and taller. This man was John Watson, an expert doctor and the leader of a group that called themselves "consulting soldiers," as opposed to "mercenaries," or "soldiers for hire."

The group took any mission, or went off to do any independent mission that could be used to possibly take down the Prime Minister, a man only elected to his office because no one suspected him to be the evil owner of the name, James Moriarty.

However, he showed his true colors quickly enough. Prime Minister Moriarty manipulated everyone he could to work in his favor, and even ordered the immediate arrest of John Watson in suspicion of the sudden deaths of both Richard Brook and Sherlock Holmes two years prior.

John had only escaped arrest because Lestrade knew better of John than to have had any involvement with Sherlock's death, and he warned him to run and hide. In fact, it was through Lestrade's continued efforts that the group of consulting soldiers got anywhere near as vast as it currently was. And the group was just continuing to grow every time Moriarty ordered another arrest or death warrant on some innocent citizen.

The U.N. attempts to step in and stop Moriarty proved in vain as he manipulated them all, kidnapping family members or cherished friends to prevent anyone from giving him the same fall Sherlock Holmes had suffered.

John came to a stop near enough to Baker Street that he almost felt a compulsive need to go see if Mrs. Hudson was still okay but knew better. Last time he went to check on her, he had only escaped arrest because she had rushed him out. The apartments were bugged, which meant John couldn't even go back for mementos to remind him of his beloved, deceased friend. He didn't dare ask Mrs. Hudson to bring him any, even if they met in a dark alleyway. John knew that Moriarty was waiting rather impatiently for him to let his guard down so he could snap him up.

He would just have to go without the mementos, and keep the memories close and dear to his heart.

Instead, John turned down towards an alleyway. Halfway through the alley, he stopped and looked all around him to be sure that absolutely no one except for the group's guard snipers were around before he slid open a hidden door and stepped inside. He closed the door and then descended down the worn stone stairs leading to a cellar-like area teeming with life.

Unbeknownst to the owners of the building the entrance was built into, an entire mini-city that was growing as the consulting soldiers did existed beneath the city block. Entire families had taken refuge in the mini-city; children went to a hastily put together school whilst their parents took missions or guard duty for the group. The teens who were between sixteen and eighteen did both target practice and helped with the scheduling of not only missions, but meals and the random movie days that the group has to keep up morale and to just have that rare amount of fun. Everyone over eighteen however, were trained to be an official part of the consulting soldiers, to take a life if necessary but to spare the person if not.

John glanced over to the area where the newest addition of the consulting soldiers were being trained with disinterest. He hated watching children being forced to fight, but what choice did they have? Most of them would get swiped off of the street by Moriarty's men if they dared to step out of the mini-city without proper training. Many would be used as a bargaining chip to bring their parents to a prison cell, the others would just be killed off.

Without even so much as a syllable spoken to a single person in the mini-city, John retreated to his small stone home. Not much decorated it, though he was proud of what he did have. A broken black couch that he sank down in when he sat on it, a small bed with a flat pillow and thin blanket, a violin he was being taught to play, and a large collection of books varying from biographies to fictional detective stories. One tattered book manuscript titled _"The Science of Deduction"_ sat on the couch next to where John sat everyday. The stated author was, of course, Sherlock Holmes.

John took his trench coat off and threw it over the back of his couch, remaining in his white t-shirt and tight blue jeans. He fiddled with the dogtags around his neck for a moment, thinking of nothing, before he sat down and picked up _"The Science of Deduction."_ Easily, he picked back up where he left off, hoping once again that this fifth read through would finally help him to become the detective that Sherlock could look down on from his position in the clouds and be proud of.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John visits Sherlock's grave, and finds someone left him a mysterious gift.

_A Week Later..._

John pulled up the collar of his trench coat at the wind on his neck. It was getting colder; winter would be moving in quickly enough.

A small family passed him by as he pulled down the deer stalker hat on his head to hide his face.

No one would look twice at some random person visiting the grave of Sherlock Holmes, people did that all the time, but anyone who saw the face of the most wanted man in England... Well, they wouldn't hesitate to call the police immediately. So John was always sure to keep his face hidden when visiting Sherlock's grave.

When the family was far enough away at a different grave, John looked down at the tombstone he was in front of and began to talk in a hushed tone: "Sorry I haven't been in a while, I, uh," he cleared his throat, "couldn't be sure you weren't being watched."

His eyes were trained on the cleaned, shining grave stone as he knelt down to be eye level with the carved letters of Sherlock's name. "You know...you still haven't preformed that miracle I asked of you...that one final trick... You have to be working on it though, right?" He sat there silently for a few moments before saying, "I'm nutty..." He stood back up. "I'm alone in this. Even Molly..." He glanced over at the grave next to Sherlock's. 

Molly had been on Moriarty's list right underneath John, something Lestrade had told him of before he had to run and hide. She was suspected of the same as John, but there had been a difference with her. Moriarty wasn't going to wait for a "trial" to determine her guilt like he was going to with John...instead, he just killed Molly right out.

John still felt horribly guilty over her death simply because he didn't make it to her at St. Bart's quickly enough. All he could do was gather up all the documents that were left over from her files that she had marked as important. He didn't know why he had picked up the documents anyway, but his gut had told him that there was something important in them, something that may assist the consulting soldiers at some point.

Two months and he still hadn't found anything of mild importance.

John walked up to Sherlock's tombstone, kissed two fingers, and touched the top of the stone. "I miss you." He then touched Molly's stone. "I wish I knew what I was looking for...and I wish you were here too..."

He sighed and turned from the two stones to leave back to the mini-city.

However, he stopped when he heard something hit the ground not far away from him, underneath a nearby tree. He looked over and saw something red in the grass. When he walked over to it, he discovered a red file folder, which he picked up with some hesitation.

Slowly so nothing would fall out, John turned the folder over in his hands. There was no marking, not a single pen mark or partial stick label that could have determined - after a bit of time for him to really study it - where it may have come from. It was so plain in its appearance that it was disturbing and fascinating. Besides, file folders just don't fall from trees everyday, especially ones that don't look like they've sustained any damage, or have been written on.

Not thinking there would be anything of importance inside, if anything at all, John opened the folder.

He stood frozen with wide eyes at what was contained in the blood red folder. He snapped it shut, stared at the unmarked surface for a moment, and then sprinted back to the consulting soldiers' mini-city. This was something he would have to share with the rest of the upper soldiers!

...

A rugged man sighed at the pictures and the note that had been contained inside of the red folder. He ran one hand through his gray hair and shook his head doubtfully. The inside of the folder had contained pictures of Prime Minister Moriarty on a beach with some woman. One of the pictures had a sign in the background written in French, and the short-hand note had confirmed that:

_This is the Prime Minister, in France. You have a week from today before he returns, so that should be ample time to make up some sort of raid to bring him down from the inside. Do it quickly._

"Who is this from Watson?" The man asked; skepticism ran through his voice.

John shrugged and shook his head all at once. "I would like to believe that it's Lestrade sending us another heads up," he picked up the note, "but it's difficult to say. He's never done this is such a weird way..." He looked closer at the hand writing. The short-hand was **like** Lestrade's, but it was still different. At least, enough so that John could tell someone else did it. But the first person who came to mind was someone dead and gone, so he shook the thought from his mind. 

"I don't know if it's him or not." He put the note back down with the pictures. "Either way, we should take advantage of the time he's gone. Perfect."

The man nodded. "I agree with you. Tonight we'll do a raid."

"No." John continued before his fellow could protest: "I have surgery tonight. Remember, some of our people got shot a few days back? I have to help them...I can't delay it anymore or they might get an infection. Plus we're running out of morphine to keep the pain away."

He received a sigh of complete irritation in response. "Fine. Get them all done tonight though because you **will** be joining us tomorrow night for the raid."

"Right." John turned away and left the small stone room that was the center for all strategy meetings. Tomorrow night was plenty of time for him to get all of the necessary surgeries done and get some rest. All he could really hope for was that nothing unexpected came up between now and then.

He walked over to another stone building, blinking to adjust his eyes as he walked in. The inside of the surgical building was draped in blindingly white sheets, one of which separated a waiting area from the proper surgery. The total ten folding chairs in the waiting room were all full. Some were waiting on others to come out, others were bleeding and awaiting surgery. 

John looked at these ones who were bleeding and smiled. "I'll get to you as soon as I can, I promise." In the mean time, he sent nurses out to ensure they wouldn't die on him.

With an entrance so terribly dull that his "intern," a blonde named Marie would tease him about it for another two weeks, John skulked into the surgery. He mustered up a tiny smile for Marie's sake, as she was smiling at him, but it was a pitiful smile. One of a man who has seen too much war and not enough laughter in only a short amount of time.

A few months was just a short amount of time, but he had seen worse in Afghanistan. Perhaps it only affected him more here because it was war in his own home.

"So," John shimmied into a pair of scrubs that he had sown back together God knew how many times, "who's first?"

Marie looked to the patient lying bleeding on the surgery table, and at the makeshift chart next to it. "Thomas Jenkins. Shot in the stomach earlier tonight. We managed to slow the bleeding, but it's unclear right now if he'll live through the procedure."

John nodded as he grabbed a mask and gloves. "He's out though, right? You gave him a morphine?"

"I did."

He smirked ever so slightly. A habit he picked up from...well, he really didn't know **where** he picked it up from. It just started happening whenever he noticed Marie doing something clever or well. "Okay then," he picked up a surgical knife, "shall we get started?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The raid...

The surgeries had gone well. No one died, which was always a plus, though he did have to amputate the leg of one of the soldiers who had been shot. He felt horribly for having to do it, but the man would have died from infection if he hadn't. He just knew that whenever the man finally woke up - he had to be given quite a bit of morphine to knock him out - he would be getting an earful for it. Marie, however, promised to make that a shorter amount of time as she said she would talk to someone about giving the man sniper duty.

In the meantime, John was with the raiding party heading for the Parliament Building. The guard hadn't decreased by much in the past week, but the soldiers had the fortune of bringing plenty of people.

The group stopped in the same shadow that John had been spying from a week ago.

"Alright," the gray-haired man whispered harshly to the soldiers following him and John, "you three," he pointed at a brunette, a blonde, and red-head boy, "with John. Get in there and take it all down. The rest of you, with me. We're the distraction."

Everyone nodded. John clapped one hand on his companion's shoulder. "Good luck to you."

He did the same to John. "And to you."

The four sat in the shadow waiting as the others snuck out to create the distraction.

While they were waiting, John turned to the three he had been charged with. The brunette and red-head he knew well, Hal and Barry, also known as "Fili" and "Kili" over the radio. The blonde was someone new however, and, judging by his face, was probably the eighteen-year-old that had been promised to the group as a fellow raider. John asked the youngest's name.

"George," the blonde replied. His voice was trembling with his hands, and in his eyes, he looked so damn scared of what was to come. John even saw when it looked like George's hand would try to flinch towards the handgun on his waist.

Instead of trying to berate him for his obvious fear like most others near his position, John smiled at the blonde and told him, "Don't be so nervous. Chances are that you won't even have a need for your gun if everything goes right."

"People get shot, they die..."

Hal and Barry exchanged a look of concern for the boy that John picked up on and understood. Most of the new ones were terrified of being shot and killed just from seeing what happened to the ones that had even been soldiers before the rebellion. Not seeing any other way around it, John just said, "Yes, it happens, but you will live through tonight. I promise."

Hal nodded. "Yeah!" He clapped George on the shoulder with a wide, almost goofy smile. "We'll all go back to the hide-out after this and throw back a couple shots in celebration!"

"Of what?" George didn't understand what there could possibly be to celebrate anymore.

"You popping your cherry on the battlefield," Barry said with a light chuckle. "We do it for all the newbies."

John's smile got a little wider at Barry's kind of "lewd" description of it, but it seemed to relax George a little, so he didn't rib Barry about it. That could wait until later.

The sound of gunfire erupted from the courtyard of the Parliament Building; John looked back over there from his three companions. He nodded and signaled for them to follow him as he emerged from the shadow, creeping low to the ground. The four silently crept along, hugging the wall up to the front door. They had to wait as a line of military men an out into the courtyard to join in the skirmish before they slunk into the building.

They slipped into a dark hallway lined with offices that were closed down for the night as John pulled out a map of the place. George asked where he could have possibly gotten it but the question was ignored as John placed the map flat on the ground. He pointed to a room marked with an X, explaining that had to be the room they had to reach. The "insider," (an unnamed Lestrade), had told John about the room and it being where Moriarty's weakness was.

"Just down this hall?" Hal asked with heavy skepticism lacing his voice. "That seems too convenient."

"That's what I thought," John folded the map back up, "but we have to take it. We might not get this chance after tonight."

The other three nodded in agreement and followed John down the corridor.

Even considering the skirmish outside, the inside of the building was disturbingly quiet. Not even the dust on the floor stirred until the four consulting soldiers ran over it, and there wasn't a single noise except for them running along and their breathing becoming labored as they realized the hall was much longer than the map made it seem.

None too soon, they reached the door, marked in the nondescript hall only by the light pouring out from under it.

George leaned against the wall gasping for breath. He suddenly regretted ditching the part of his training that required him to run around the mini-city to go read military history. It wasn't exactly in his plans to ever be a raider, but it wasn't like he had much of a choice; his marksmanship decided that for him. (He was promised a sniper position when he became a little older and better, something he could not be looking more forward to.) Barry hit George on the back lightly, feeling sorry for him to have to be out of breath already.

John looked between his three companions and nodded to them. "George, come with me. Hal and Barry, keep a lookout."

Hal and Barry nodded and took up positions on either side of the door while John and George slipped inside. They looked around, confused. The room was empty save for a rusted metal desk devoid of all decor, an old swivel chair, and a single file cabinet crowded into a far corner. It was like someone decided to clear out a bunch of cubicles but, for some odd reason, thought it would be a good idea to leave one in the room, like a cruel joke to whoever had to sit there, alone, day after day bashing their head against the stark white wall.

"This is it?" George said with the slightest tinge of annoyance coming through in his voice. "This is the room that contains the Prime Minister's weakness?"

John shook his head and stepped forward to the desk and file cabinet slowly. It was so odd that he really didn't know if it was a good idea to trust the room; it was too plain and too comforting. Nothing could be so easy.

When he reached the file cabinet, John slowly slid the top drawer open, just in case it was a trap. Empty. The second drawer. Empty. Third drawer. Empty. Upon opening the final drawer, John finally saw something. A single blood red file folder, just like the one that had given the group the information on Moriarty's vacation. John picked it up and opened it. The only thing inside was a single small piece of notebook paper that read: 

**_WATCH YOUR BACK_ **

John's eyebrows knit together. What was this? A warning? Meaningless to him, but perhaps there was something in the message or something special with the paper that could give John a clue. He figured that, at the very least, it was a good test for him.

He turned back to George. "Come on, let's go. You and Barry can go...celebrate?" A handgun was pointed at his forehead, and at the other end was a smirking eighteen-year-old who had nearly wet his pants ten minutes prior. "George?" John's eyes shifted from the gun to the dark blue eyes that had been full of fear, now full of hate and concentration. "What's going on?"

"Watch. Your. **Back**!" George laughed loudly as yelling and gunfire came from the hallway outside. "Did you really think that you were the only one with an informant on the inside? We've known about your group for a while."

"John!" Hal screamed from the other side of the door. The handle shook but never turned; it was locked. "George! Come on, get out of there!"

"Hal, we have to go!" Barry chimed in. "They'll get out!"

George laughed even louder. "They don't know; they could **never** know what's awaiting you!" Still holding the gun to John's head, George walked around him. "But you'll never forget the things Master Moriarty is planning for you."

Master? How far did Moriarty have his pawns wrapped around his finger? And what could he be possibly doing to such a young boy to twist him so much? John wondered this but was so sure not to show it on his face as George circled back around to his front. They stayed standing there silently as the gunfire in the hallway died off and hollow footsteps replaced it.

Moments later, the door handle shook again, only this time, it was followed by a click. The door swung open to four military men with assault rifles and a man no taller than John with dark hair in a dark gray suit. The suited man strolled into the room, shining shoes and painted black cane echoing off the walls of the empty room.

Moriarty waved George out of his way and snatched John's handgun out of the waistband of his jeans. "You're a soldier, John. You should've had this drawn since the very moment you entered this building. But instead you trusted an eighteen-year-old to watch your back." He laughed, spinning in a circle on one foot knowing that no man in the room would dare to betray **him** , the holder of the strings of the spider's web. "You've lost that soldier's touch! You should trust **no man**!" He pointed the handgun at George and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

"No!" John screamed. He watch in horror as George fell to floor, dead. He glared at Moriarty, who just smiled at his anger.

"Oh," Moriarty started in mockingly, "did I do something to upset you? Did you promise to protect that **moron**?" He shrugged and threw the handgun to one of his guards. "He's not your precious Holmes, so why do you care?"

John opened with mouth to answer but Moriarty screamed at him to just not answer. "It'd be some ridiculous answer about protecting everyone around you, am I right? Oh, I'm right." He pivoted on one foot to his guards. "Take him down to the cells. I have something special planned for this one." He strolled out of the room as the military men rushed forward and grabbed John to drag him to a cell below the Parliament Building. He kicked and screamed and struggled against them to no avail until they finally threw him into a cell and slammed it shut.

John ran to the cell door and shook it, pushed it, and kicked at it until he just finally gave up. "Dammit!" He screamed at the wall behind him. "Goddammit!" He sat down on the floor with his back against the cell bars. "Now would be a **perfect** time to come back Sherlock..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm mean, I know...but it just gets worse...
> 
> Oh, and I'll try to do three chapters a day just to catch up to myself on deviantART. Plus I will try not to update too quickly on there so that I can catch up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Night will fall_  
>  _And drown the sun_  
>  _When a good man_  
>  _Goes to war_  
>  \--Doctor Who

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is when the violence really starts to pick up. I am sorry ahead of time.
> 
> Also, you know...Moriarty craziness, so...be prepared...

A week maybe, perhaps longer had passed. John didn't know, he couldn't **possibly** know. There were no windows down in the jail-like area beneath Parliament, and the only light came from the single dim bulb hanging just outside of his cell. He supposed that there were originally supposed to be more lights in the area but they had either gone out, or they were turned off simply because there was not a need for them. Either way, it made his cell very, very dark, and it was an effort to keep from wandering into the shadow that covered three-fourths of the cell while he paced to pass the time.

No one had been down to visit him since he was thrown into the cell, that is, unless you counted the silent soldiers who came once a day to give him some very disgusting food. John had surmised finally that it was supposed to be oatmeal, though it looked and tasted more like grits, with a water, which was very salty for reasons he couldn't understand. It irked him. True, he was happy he wasn't being tortured like he thought when George pretty much announced that possibility before Moriarty shot him, but the loneliness was abhorrent.

Suddenly he began to wonder how he had managed practically living in a fox hole for a few weeks during his military training. That was a tiny space he couldn't even imagine moving around in and he was fine then; he felt like he was losing his mind in a cell 100 times that size! God, he needed a drink!

The horrible, mundane silence was broken by the opening of the door leading from the upstairs to the cells. John stopped his pacing and looked out as military men marched out in front of his cell. If there had only been one, John would've waved it off as they would be delivering his daily meal, but there four of them. None were armed or had food, and that made him **very** nervous.

Before he could even attempt to ask what they were doing, one of the military men opened the cell to let them all inside. John kept his eyes trained on each of them as they stepped through the metal frame but moved no further. They stood there staring at him, acting as if the cold, dark place had no effect on them. But he could see it in their eyes; how it bothered them to be in such a place...but there was something else alongside that. Something else in their eyes that he couldn't quite pinpoint; it was like regret, but...for something that perhaps hadn't happened yet.

"Boys, boys, boys..." Moriarty strolled to be standing in front of the cell, now definitely not wearing the handsome, expensive suit that he had met John in a week ago. No, that would've been far too good a look for a traitor to England...! Instead, he decided to just wear a floor-length cloth cloak to cover whatever he was wearing underneath, but he still smiled like a child with his favorite toy. "I told you to immobilize doctor Watson the moment you arrived down here. Why isn't he immobilized?"

"Sir," one of the men spoke, "he is quite unable to escape with four of us on-hand."

Moriarty chuckled and shook his head. "If you really believe that, I know I've hired the wrong men." His cane swung around from out of the cloak to point at John through the bars. "This man is the leader of a band of rebels that have continuously given me a headache. If I thought you could contain him so easily, I wouldn't have you to do anything **but that**...however, I've told you to **immobilize him**!" Moriarty started to yell at the military men now. "So do **just. THAT!** Immobilize that bastard!"

The man who addressed Moriarty now turned his attention back to John, who could now definitely see pangs of regret for what was about to happen.

John backed away, stealing glances into the shadow, hoping that he could get around them if they couldn't see him moving.

So he tried just that.

He darted into the shadow, retreating to the darkest corner and ran around them. He made a mad dash for the open cell door when the military men moved to chase him, but found himself tackled to the ground. A fist met his face only once because Moriarty threatened death with anyone who dared to damage John's face; the rest of him was a free-for-all though. Fists, feet, elbows, knees; everything at some point had contact with John's body. By the end of it, he ached all over, every bit of him - save his face - was bruising or fractured. He even bore a few cuts that would later scar from the neglect of minor medical treatment.

One of the military men bound John's hands behind his back with a piece of chicken wire that made him moan through his teeth with pain. When they pushed him forward, he found he could barely walk with nearly every bit of his lower body throbbing with the beating he just received. Something to "immobilize him," and it worked. He couldn't escape without being able to run, and that was one thing he knew his legs would refuse to do.

Moriarty smiled at John when they were face-to-face. "That was a preview of things to come. And trust me, you'll wish that that was the worst of it." His eyes looked to one of the men behind John. "Come along now, to the lab. I need to be quick or this may not work so well as I hope it will."

Lab? A knot coiled in John's stomach as he reluctantly marched forward, pushed by one of the men.

At the threshold of a stark white lab, he froze. Two surgical beds were set up, both fashioned with restraining straps for wrists, ankles, and head, and beside both of these were equipment. Nothing that looked even relatively friendly was in that room, and even the floor bore the marks of a terrible fate awaiting John; dried blood stained the once pure white linoleum.

Moriarty walked over to over of the surgical beds before turning back to John, who was now standing beside the other. "Let's see how far we can get today. I've never done this for myself, but I'm told it hurts very... **very** bad." His smiled widened into one of total glee. "Well...let's hope we both survive, so you can see the beautiful result of all your pain!"

"Result?" John struggled as the men who had "escorted" him cut off the chicken wire and strapped him to his surgical bed. "Moriarty, what is this?!" He fought against the restraints, to no avail. He tried desperately not to cry as a surgeon walked right over to him, and instead screamed, "What are you going to do to me?! Moriarty!"

\---

John lay on the floor of his cell, utterly defeated. The bruises from the beatings he had received pained him, and his entire body protested if even so much as twitched, but that wasn't the worst part.

His face was bright red and marred with stitches and dried blood from the procedures.

How long had he been there now? He wasn't sure, and sometimes he didn't want to know.

Groaning, John flipped over onto his back; his front was too sore to continue lying on. He stared up at the ceiling wishing it was all some sort of horrible, drug-induced nightmare that Moriarty was torturing him with. Because there was absolutely no reason for Moriarty to want to take John's face from him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return begins...

On the patio a rather nondescript café in a quaint countryside village sat a lanky man with his afternoon tea. He took a quieted tiny sip of his tea now that it wasn't so terribly hot - he knew would be just by looking at the horrid machine that the café housed the tea in - and drinkable. His crystal blue eyes swept the field in front of the café but could see nothing out of the ordinary. Just a field full of grass blowing in the wind with the Baskerville military instillation on the other side of it.

The man smiled at Baskerville, and at the drug-induced horrors that both it and Liberty, Indiana had come up with. It was terrible, that; The Hounds of Baskerville, as his former associate had once named it. A case that particular man never forgot, but only because it was the only case he had come across at that time to give him such a damned scare. Perhaps it was then that the man knew his associate was his life, was the absolute one person that mattered to him so much.

He dwelt on that one thought daily. It bothered him, every time he looked out at Baskerville and just...wondered.

Eventually though, as he always did, he shrugged the thought off. There were some things that even the world's greatest detective just had to let fester in his mind.

The man stood with a backpack in one hand and his other hand running back his dark curled hair; it had grown too long for his liking, and he wanted to have it cut but it wasn't something pressing. It would just have to wait until after his current business was through.

He walked over to the train station to grab the ticket he had on reserve for the next train heading off to London.

"Name please...?" The station master prompted when told of the reserved ticket.

"Of course," the deep voice responded. "The name should be Sherlock Holmes."

\--

Moaning at the voices that all of sudden filled the jail area angrily, John rolled his head over. Two military men marched into the cell before John could react to them; they hauled him painfully up and made him to walk with the agony of bruised, battered feet. He marched along, gasping for breath with every little stab of pain that ran through him, protests from his body at the movements, but he continued on until they came up to the lab again.

John barely glanced at Moriarty, whose face still remained the same as it was when they first began the absurd procedures. The bastard had chickened out of having his own face removed at every turn after hearing John's own agonizing screams from the strict "no sedatives or pain-killers for the prisoner" rule.

The military men practically threw John onto the surgical bed, earning a grunt through clenched teeth. The surgeon strapped him down but bit his bottom lip at the pained face of his patient. He looked to Moriarty pleadingly.

"Please, sir, mister Prime Minister--"

"You know the rule," Moriarty growled at the surgeon. "In private or closed quarters, it's **Master** Moriarty!"

The surgeon nodded and started again: "Please...Master Moriarty, I fear that we don't give him something for the pain, even something mild, this man will die."

Moriarty gave a little smirk. "What do I care if he lives or dies? I need his face." His gaze turned to John, and he saw everything there that had appeared after the first attempted procedure. Fear, pain, sadness, defeat. Seeing all of those emotions carved so elegantly onto a once strong face excited Moriarty to his very core, and he wanted to see those emotions **scream**! "And that's **all**."

As Moriarty turned to get onto the surgical bed, resolved that that procedure would be the final, John managed out through a protesting vocal box: "If you weren't such a...chicken shit, this would be over," he hissed.

The Prime Minister, no longer smiling even his most disquieting smile, turned on his prisoner. His black eyes were wide with unbridled anger and his face was taut with horrid calm. He kept his eyes trained on John for the longest thirty seconds, never moving, never blinking...until, finally, he looked at his soldiers and surgeon and said, "Leave. I will tell you when to return."

Without a single moment of hesitation, they all but scrambled for the door. They knew full-well what was about to happen.

Moriarty paced around to the other side of the surgical bed John was still strapped to, never speaking a single syllable until the door of the lab was closed and he got closer to his prisoner.

With his face still in that terrible calm, Moriarty leaned over John close to his face and whispered to him, "If you take back your words, I will spare you more pain." He had resisted the strong urge to hiss out to word "spare." He wasn't known for being kind, but this was his one invaluable prisoner for the moment. If he could keep him alive just long enough for the procedure to actually be done, it would have been a great mercy on his part!

In response, John let out a breathy chuckle and said to him, "You...repel...me."

Those three words that would not have amounted to much to any other man in the same position, infuriated Moriarty like no one ever had before. Without moving his feet, he turned sharply and grabbed the riding crop he had laying there amongst other "instruments" that he had lying about to torture his prisoners.

No hesitation.

He drew the riding crop up and then brought it down hard across John's exposed stomach, earning one of the loudest screams he had gotten from the man yet. He drew it up and brought it down again, harder, breaking the skin this time. Again and again and again and again, faster and faster, Moriarty struck John's stomach, chest, legs, and arms with the riding crop as hard as he possibly could. All the while, he screamed at John about how worthless he was, how stupid, how boring...! ("I bet even Holmes found you the most idiotic **bore** in all of the world!") And that that was the first time he had ever provided him with some form of entertainment.

The Master and his Prisoner; the tormented and tormentor. Drops of blood flew between them, some landing on the hand or arm of the tormentor while the others dropped harmlessly to the floor. The tormented's body was quickly becoming a map of welts, gashes, and blood. The room was constantly filled with crying and shouting.

Nothing could be more painful, even with his face to be taken from him! John Watson just wanted the beating to end! All he wanted to go to sleep, into the dreaming land where he could no longer feel anything of the pain! Where instead, he was with the most important man in the entire world. The only man he knew could save him at that point; a dead man.

When at last Moriarty's arm grew tired and he dropped the riding crop, there was a silence of sorts. The screams died away, replaced by the gasping of Moriarty catching his breath and the hitching of John's breath as he tried so desperately not to cry.

Smoothly, Moriarty walked around the surgical bed and out of the lab. He looked to surgeon, standing just outside of the door. "Get him clean and stitch him up if you believe it may do good. But don't take him back to his cell. When I finish the rest of my duties today, I will be back, and then the procedure will happen! That little **bastard** ," he spit, "will **never** dream the daylight **again**!" He turned sharply and stomped up the stairs back to the proper Parliament Building. He would have to wash up, but that would be something easily remedied.

The surgeon turned to the lab to do as he was told but paused for a moment at the door. John was crying. 

For the first time, the hardened soldier that the surgeon was so sure would never break, finally did. But all he kept saying throughout it was:

"Come back Sherlock...please...I need you...come back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that John was a tad OOC right there at the end, but look at what he just went through and tell me he doesn't deserve a breakdown...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A daring escape is made as a long-waited return happens.

Shakily the surgeon, who introduced himself to John as Jon Smith, stitched up the worst of the gashes on John's chest and stomach. He wiped the blood off carefully as he went along, always sure to stop if John yelped or shook too hard. He even kept his eyes from locking with John's, knowing what he would be doing to the poor man in a short enough time.

When at last he had finished, Jon wrapped John's arms and legs with bandages. He sat down in a folding chair next to the surgical bed and just stared at his patient. What had this man ever done to Moriarty to incur such a wrath? Even before he called Moriarty a "chicken shit," he was always going to take John's face from him without telling anyone why.

"Why do you work for him?" John croaked out.

Jon's eyes darted about the room as if looking for something while John just looked at him oddly from the corner of his eye. "Money. I couldn't find a job out of medical school and I didn't qualify to be a military doctor. Moriarty offered me a job and I took it without a thought."

"He's not threatening you or your family?" John's eyebrows knit together, trying to figure out what the other man was plotting.

"Don't have a family for him to threaten." Jon stood up and walked over to a camera in the corner that was trained on John. He reached up and moved a few wires around. "However," he flinched back when a spark leaped from the wires, "that doesn't mean I'll just let this happen."

"What?" John's eyes looked at where Ben undid one of the straps on his wrists. "What're you doing?"

"I've made mistakes, and many of them far too recently." Jon undid the other wrist strap. "Undo the others and wait five minutes. I'll have my soldiers clear a path for you to an exit. Escape."

John reached up and loosened the strap around his head. "I can barely walk. How am I supposed to get off of the grounds?"

Jon slipped out of the lab coat and threw it aside. He smiled back at John. "Like I said, **my** soldiers." He pulled a handgun from a deep pocket that had been hidden by the lab coat. "There's much more to do in this war Doctor Watson that you or your 'consulting soldiers' could even dream. Insiders like myself have been working with him since the beginning to take him down." He smiled as he pulled off of black wig that concealed shaggy brown-blonde hair. "There's also some information I'll give you if you escape. And, oh, trust me, you'll want to know it!"

John painfully pushed himself up. "You're not the surgeon who worked on me before... Who the hell are you?"

Jon kept smiling. "All I can say is that my name is a false. And you'll remember my name when I tell you it." He stepped out of the lab and looked to the two soldiers standing outside. "Go time." The three turned from the closing door and marched up to the Parliament Building.

Though his mind ran a million miles a second, John worked quickly enough on the ankle straps. Slowly, he slid off of the surgical bed and to the ground; he fell to his knees the moment his feet touched the linoleum though, and he trembled hard with the effort it took to just not fall over entirely. He reached up and grabbed the edge of the surgical bed to pull himself back to his feet. He held on for life as he forced his legs to work and keep him balanced.

His eyes darted up to the camera that "Jon" had disabled. It was moving around in a frantic way, as if the people who were in charge couldn't understand why it wasn't working. In fact, John was wondering the same. The man was a doctor, unless he had been lying about that as well, like him, so it didn't make sense that he could disable a camera so easily.

"'There is more to this war,' huh?" John looked up at the clock above the door. Nearly time for him to go. "I don't doubt that."

Carefully, John stepped away from the surgical bed and towards the door. He gripped the door knob hard and squeezed his eyes shut; his forehead rested against the door frame. Every part of his body already hurt and he wasn't even out of the room! How did that man expect him to run, even with "his soldiers" helping him?

John drew in a deep breath. "Come on," he muttered to himself, "you can get away. This will be easy...just get back to where you're safe..." It wouldn't be difficult, he told himself, it wouldn't. Just a quick run; ignore all the pain. That can be taken care of later.

Resolved at last to really go through with it, John flung open the door and, against every part of him that screamed in protest, he dashed up the stairs to the Parliament Building. He knocked open that door; no one was around. The soldiers really **had** cleared a path for him, something he was beyond grateful for. Without a moment's hesitation for the pain to settle in, he kept going until he finally saw a door he could head straight out of.

So he ran for it.

\--

Meanwhile, a man pulled a hat down low on his head to hide his face. Sherlock Holmes was no longer in a small village where people just ignored his existence, he was in London. Anyone who saw his face would have a field day and he couldn't allow that. Nobody was allowed to see his face until he found a group he'd heard rumors of. Something called the "consulting soldiers." The rumors varied on the name of the group's leader, but Sherlock had no doubt that it could only be his best friend, John Watson. Who else would've come up with a name like that for a rebellion group?

_Where would you hide such a group John?_ Sherlock asked in his head. His eyes swept the street before him and jogged across it. He didn't figure that it would be too hard to deduce where John's soldiers were. As much as he loved the man, he wasn't exactly difficult to trace. (He remembered one time he tracked him down to the grocery store to try to talk him out of buying a bottle of wine - he would've preferred a pack of cigarettes - something he had done in a short time, though John still ended up getting the wine.)

As he continued on, Sherlock shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. He was lucky that the weather was changing and no one would think anything of a man bundled up against the cooling wind, and he supposed that, unconsciously, he had planned his return to London to be at this time for just that reason.

He stopped near Baker Street and looked up at the rooftop of a building. He could've sworn he saw movement up there, but it was probably just a bird or an adventurous cat. However, that didn't stop him from noticing the two painted ladders meant to blend in with the darkness of the alley; even from there, he could see that they were frequently used. So, even though he couldn't really confirm that there was any human up on the roof, he was more certain that he had seen a human as opposed to an animal just from the ladders' existence.

If that had been of his concern though, he would've further investigated. Instead, he continued on to Baker Street. As much as Sherlock wanted to find John, he figured it would be a good idea to show his face to Mrs. Hudson. She might even be able to inadvertently give him helpful information as to John's location.

At reaching his old residence, Sherlock just walked right on in. The key still fit the lock - he had hoped Mrs. Hudson would've changed it at least once during his absence - and the door swung open with a little resistance and a creek. It hadn't been taken care of; there was some good amount of rust on the hinges. He walked past the staircase once he closed the door again, not even bothering to go up to the old flat; there was nothing he needed from there at the present.

Carefully, so as not to surprise his former landlady, Sherlock entered her flat situated directly underneath 221B. The television was on, some American talk show was on that Mrs. Hudson had enjoyed watching when he and John lived above her, and apparently she still liked to watch.

For a moment, he just stood at the threshold between the kitchen and living room unable to speak. He hadn't planned this far ahead, and he was very certain that anything he did or said would probably give the poor old woman a heart attack. After all, to her, Sherlock Holmes was dead and buried.

As fortune would have it though, he didn't have to think much longer on the matter as the talk show ran into a commercial, and Mrs. Hudson stood up to come into the kitchen for a glass of water. Sherlock just stood there in his usual poise with a commanding air surrounding him as he always had before, hoping that he wouldn't give too much of a fright. But the moment she saw him, she froze, her eyes widened, and she went white as a sheet.

They stayed standing there like that for a while before Sherlock finally smiled a little bit and said, "Hello Mrs. Hudson. Do you have any tea made?"

In response, she fainted.

Now Sherlock's eyes went wide and his smile dropped. He nodded to himself and tightened his lips into a straight line as he moved to pick her up back onto the couch. "Probably should've seen that coming..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deduce who the "surgeon," Jon Smith, really is. If you take clues that are set in multiple areas of the story already, you should be able to guess it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets the consulting soldiers.

When Mrs. Hudson woke from her episode a short time later, Sherlock had made Earl Grey tea for her and was setting it on a small end table next to the sofa where she was laying. He handed her a cup when she sat up but she barely took it into her shaking hands, and didn't even take her eyes away from him as she did. Was this really Sherlock Holmes? Had she done something to deserve being haunted by such a specter? Terrified, she asked him as much.

Sherlock couldn't help but to smile a little at the question. She really hadn't changed a bit. "I'm not a ghost; I'm real."

"But," Mrs. Hudson took a quick drink of her tea, "John saw you die..."

He looked to the ground and gripped his hands together tightly. He regretted tricking John like that more than anything else in the world, even though it had to be done. "It's...complicated," he told her. It wasn't too complicated for him, in fact it had been rather easy, but he didn't think he had enough time to explain it all to her. If he could later, he would tell both her and John. "Anyway Mrs. Hudson, I have a question about John." He looked back up and saw her gone from the sofa; she had gotten up while he wasn't looking and moved into the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock followed her in time to see her flipping over a large plastic card in her window that he had dismissed earlier. His eyebrows drew together. It was a signal, that much was obvious, but he hoped it wasn't for the police. If she sold him out, he would be out of luck until he managed to find wherever John was hiding out.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock stepped forward towards Mrs. Hudson in time for the door he had walked through only minutes ago to slam open to four men and two women in plain clothes holding automatic weapons. They all had their guns pointed at him, to which he looked alarmed and then amused. These were no military men of Moriarty's; they would look far more official, even in plain clothes. The men were unshaven and had a bit of a fowl smell around them; the women had frizzy hair and were covered in dirt and general grime. "The consulting soldiers," he said with a smile.

"A few of a us," one of the men said, "yeah. You a new recruit? Lestrade send you here?"

"No and no. I am someone your leader, Mr. Watson, would have great joy in seeing again. An old friend."

The man looked suddenly uncomfortable, as if Sherlock shouldn't have known about John being their leader. "Watson sent for you then?"

"No. He doesn't even know I'm alive. In fact, he thinks I'm rather dead." Sherlock clapped his hands together once in front of him. "Well, come along then, show me where John has set up home for you lot!"

While the others confusingly led Sherlock away, the man who had addressed him went over to Mrs. Hudson. "Who was that? He is...odd."

Mrs. Hudson looked up at him and then smiled wider than she had in a long time. "That was Sherlock Holmes dear!"

\--

Sherlock looked around as the soldiers led him into the alleyway he had given a passing glance earlier; from there, he could clearly see the worn areas of a black paint where the ladders had been used multiple times. It even looked like they had been painted recently. He thought it was such a shame to put someone to work so hard on painting those ladders when the paint would only get chipped away a short time later.

Fascinated by the rather nondescript alley, he watched as one of the women who had escorted him opened the door in the wall that led down to the mini city. He smiled again. "Clever John," he muttered, "clever. No one would think about opening a wall."

Sherlock followed the soldiers down the stairs into the mini city, another fascinating sight for him. An entire city that John hid underground via a door in the wall of an alleyway! Perhaps he had taught his dear friend plenty after all! His head swiveled every which way, taking in the carved stone and the faces of all of the astonished people who recognized him right away. Quite a few people were hiding out there, he noticed. John had built up quite the resistance pocket.

When finally the small group had reached the near center of the mini city, they stopped. The man who had talked to Sherlock earlier told him that he would return momentarily and retreated inside one of the stone buildings that Sherlock assumed took a terribly long time to carve.

He listened to the voices coming from the inside of the building, but could not hear John's. There was the voice of the man and of some woman that Sherlock knew but refused to acknowledge simply because he saw no reason for her to be there. He sighed and stood there surrounded by the other soldiers for far too long; it shouldn't have taken more than a brief moment to get John - and his apparent accomplice, (or some new flame of his) - so that he could see his old friend again.

Just as the thought left Sherlock's mind, the man stepped back out of the building followed by a woman. No, not just **a** woman, but **the** woman, still with long brown hair and dressed in a low cut shirt, tight leather jacket, tight blue jeans, and knee-high heeled boots. Irene Adler had returned to London as well.

Sherlock, however, was shocked to see Irene approaching him instead of John. This he not been expecting and it irritated him. How many times was the woman going to outsmart him like this?! Once she had recovered herself from the shock of seeing Sherlock alive again, Irene strolled forward to him.

"Sherlock Holmes," she purred, "alive. This should make a better scandal than our last meeting," she teased.

"Miss Adler, or, should I say," he grabbed her left hand once he saw the two silver bands on her ring finger, " **Mrs.** Adler."

"Actually Mrs. Norton. But please, just call me Irene, it'll be so much simpler." She crossed her arms over her chest. "What brings you here?"

"I should be the one asking that. You're supposed to be in the witness protection scheme in America," he pointed out in a harsh whisper.

Irene smiled and waved everyone away. "Get back to what you were doing, whatever it was. I'm sure Mr. Holmes will be available later." She gestured for him to follow her and led him into the building she had emerged from.

"You're supposed to be safe in America," Sherlock said louder once they were away from prying eyes.

"And **you're** supposed to be six-feet under enjoying a dirt nap," she rebuked. "My being here makes far more sense in that aspect, so you might want to start the explaining portion of this conversation."

He shook his head. "That's not important right now. Look, where's John? I thought **he** was in charge of the consulting soldiers." He was sure he'd found the right group; there was no way two groups could get away with hiding in London, even if both were underground.

Irene sighed and leaned back against a table covered in maps and photographs. "He is. In fact, he founded this rebellion group. I'm the group's temp leader." When she saw his eyebrows knit together, she continued, "John disappeared nearly a month ago. Moriarty's men captured him during a raid on the Parliament Building. John's General, his normal temp, died in the attack, with quite a few others. Only two men made it back, and they seem to have confidence that the kid who escorted John into the room would die before letting the group's leader die."

"Where are these two men?" Sherlock wanted to have a word with the two who just left John to die at Moriarty's hand.

"They're on sniper guard duty. I wouldn't give them too much attention, they're good men. From what I understand, they had a great friendship with John. They wouldn't have left him if they didn't think he'd be okay."

He turned from her to hide the anger on his face. He didn't care how good of a friendship they had with John. They just **left him** to be captured! They would have to answer to him for their actions at some point.

"We're trying to free him Sherlock. Don't worry, he'll be safe," Irene said reassuringly.

"How do you know he's not dead?"

"An insider has said that Moriarty has something special planned for him, but wouldn't elaborate as to what. I almost don't want to know."

Sherlock faced her again. "What's your plan then? You can't just rush the Parliament Building, it'll end up the same as last time. Someone will get captured or killed, and we can't have that happen again. Another insider, maybe? You might be able to get someone in urban camouflage to sneak inside."

She shook her head. "We can't do anything yet. Security has tightened like you wouldn't believe since that raid, and we can't get close."

He walked over to look at all of the maps and photos behind her. "What's your plan then?"

"We can't do anything yet. I'm sorry Sherlock." She looked into his eyes when he glared to her. "I really am sorry. We can't do a thing with security so tight. No one has the experience to sneak in there."

Sherlock turned his attention back to the maps. There were markings everywhere. Places around the Parliament Building where security was tighter than it apparently had ever been. Every last inch of the perimeter was covered in the indelible ink that burned his mind to see. John was being held somewhere in that building, and he couldn't do a single damn thing to help him! The thought enraged Sherlock, and he hit one fist on the table before turning away to pace the room in furious speed.

There had to be a way! There was always **a way**!

After a few minutes of this, Irene walked over to him. "Sherlock, please stop."

"Nothing's impossible. There has to be a way into that building," he muttered.

"Sherlock, it **is** impossible! It simply cannot be done, we've looked at all the possibilities!"

In response to her, he said off-handedly, "Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be truth."

Irene rolled her eyes. "Exactly. For you, that means admitting that there's no way inside. There's no tunnels, and airplanes can't even fly near the bloody thing without getting shot at! There's no way in."

"There has to be...something...it's there, I'm just not seeing it," he hissed. He kept pacing, but he slowed down a bit.

While continuing to watch this frustrating display, another man ran into the small building. A wide but grave smile decorated his face. "Ma'am, come see! You won't believe it!"

Irene followed the man, deciding to leave Sherlock to his thinking for a bit, but almost immediately ran back for him. Without allowing him a single second of protest, she pulled him by the wrist outside of the building.

As soon as they were in front of the building, Sherlock broke from Irene's grip and ran over to where another of the soldiers was carrying John on his back. He saw that John was bloody, especially his face, and probably had a few broken bones here and there, but was otherwise breathing and fine. He kept his eyes trained on John, studying his every feature no matter how bloody until he was sure that the unconscious angel being carried towards a tiny hut-like building really was John Watson.

As the nurse who had assisted John in his surgeries cleaned him up and put clean bandages on him where needed, Sherlock smiled happily. He stayed next to John after the nurse and a few others had helped to move him to the bedroom in his tiny home, sitting on the bed next to him until he could no longer fight the sleep and curled up next to John on the bed.

Sherlock and John were home.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (No summary; the chapter is short.)

It was unclear how much time had past by the time Sherlock opened his eyes again, but when he did, the very first thing he noticed were the hauntingly familiar eyes looking at him through a very thick veil of shock. The shock, however, didn't matter to Sherlock; the happiest smile he'd ever had broke out across his face realizing that John was alive and, relatively, okay. He placed one hand on John's arm, but found the brunette flinched away.

Before Sherlock could feel hurt he heard John say, "I'm dead. I died. Moriarty killed me after all."

"No, John--wait, don't stand yet!" Sherlock grabbed onto John's shoulder as he tried to stand up, which was swiftly followed by a rather loud scream of pain. Well, nobody could say Sherlock didn't try to stop him...

John's arms flew around his middle as he fell back into Sherlock's chest, trembling all over with the utter pain of it. "If this is Heaven, why does it hurt?" He groaned. "Unless...this is Hell..."

"No. It's not--"

John turned on the lean man and yelled at him, "Why am I in Hell Sherlock?! Wait, why are you in Hell? Oh God, I knew it, I knew it, I was judged alongside you for the same shit you did!" He tried to stand again but Sherlock grabbed him around his waist to prevent him from moving.

"John, stop moving, your wounds will open back up!" He grabbed John's face and made him look into his eyes. "You're not dead, neither am I." He felt a relief at John's calming at the words but knew it wouldn't last long, so he quickly continued, "I'm alive John, I lived."

Still trembling, though now for the phantom holding him, John reached up with one hand and caressed Sherlock's cheek. It was warm and thin and real. He reached up for his hair. Thick, soft, curly, and still real. But it was still going like one of the nightmares John would have while in Moriarty's capture; it would seem like such a pleasant thing, so real and beautiful, and he wanted so badly to believe it was true, but Sherlock would always just be a ghost, a figment of his imagination due to fade away back into fantasy. Of course, those weren't the worst; it was the ones where Sherlock was a rotting corpse underneath the coat, and he would only realize the nightmare after the coat vanished.

Wanting to be sure that this wasn't one of his nightmares, John tore open Sherlock's coat and felt at his chest through his collared purple shirt, not caring how this made the detective's face go red. It too was warm and thin and real.

In the next moment, he heard the sounds of the consulting soldiers out of his temporary home training and tears welled up in his eyes. If this was a nightmare or even a wonderful dream, it was a cruel one. "Sherlock..." His forehead collapsed to Sherlock's chest and he breathed deep; cigarette smoke, a scent he'd missed. "This isn't a dream?"

Sherlock shook his head and then bowed it down so that his face was nestled in John's shaggy hair; he would have to cut it for him. "No. You're awake."

John nodded slightly and slowly pushed himself away from Sherlock's chest to look up at him, and to study every last bit of his face until he was truly convinced it was real.

Then he promptly punched Sherlock in the chest hard enough to send him sprawling back onto the bed. Sherlock groaned through ground teeth; he had forgotten how hard John could punch! Before he could sit back up, the still shirtless John managed - through his own pain - to crawl on top of Sherlock, straddle his waist, and keep punching him in chest and once on the same cheek he had before they first met Irene Adler.

Just as John wrapped his hands around Sherlock's throat, he stopped. Not because of Sherlock's lithe fingers around his wrists or the pain running through his body from his action, but because the tears running down his cheeks had obscured his vision and he didn't want to continue half-blinded. Instead, he sat on top of the best friend he believed to be dead with his hands loose around his throat and sobbed.

"You bastard," John hissed, "you left me! I thought you were dead," he reached up with one hand to attempt to wipe away the tears from his face, "all this time..." He took his other hand from Sherlock's throat to cover his face while he continued to weep for the return of Sherlock Holmes.

After a moment for Sherlock to will his now aching body to move, the dark-haired man reached up and pulled John gently into his arms. "I'm so sorry John. I'm sorry...I didn't realize this would affect you so badly." He closed his eyes and let John continue to sob into his chest, hoping that when John finally stopped, he wouldn't try to abuse him again. As much as he could admit John needed to vent his rage about the issue, he didn't want to be the punching bag again. John could still hit hard enough to leave bruises, and Sherlock really didn't feel he deserved more than what he had just received.

After all, he did what he had to in order to save John's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the short chapter, but I just wanted John's reaction to Sherlock's return shown.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is something of importance in Molly's files after all...

In the quiet of the mini-city's "nighttime," the sound of a single violin playing resounded off the concrete as the bow glided flawlessly across the strings. The song, Bach's _Sonata No. 1 in G minor_ , echoed brilliantly into the ears of those who still remained awake; a few tried to hum along tiredly.

The music came from the home of John Watson, and was produced from John's violin being held reverently by Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock stepped slowly around John's bedroom in only his dark blue jeans as he played and the other fell into sleep. His shirt, which had become stained with blood when John's wounds opened during his using his friend as a punching bag, was discarded onto the floor; his coat and scarf were draped over the couch in the living room. Continuing on, Sherlock almost danced about, spinning and bowing slightly at the waist as if to put on a show for John should he open his eyes.

After a bit, he stopped and allowed his eyes to close as he played, realizing John was asleep but unable to leave the song unfinished. Even with that aside, he missed playing the violin. He'd only had one opportunity during his two years away, and that had been nearly a year ago itself. Sherlock hadn't been worried about his skill in the slightest though; he had perfected the violin many years ago and a single year away from his art wouldn't affect him.

When at last Sherlock ended the song just as smoothly as he had begun it, he drew in a deep breath as he opened his eyes. It was such a feeling, even for him, to make such a beautiful sound. He really always felt this overwhelming amount of power and serenity flowing from him even when he felt like everything had crashed down around him. Maybe that was why he felt excited when he realized that John had a violin, and he remembered how it would calm John to hear him playing back at Baker Street.

Anything to comfort the man he hurt so badly was enough to make him happy.

Sherlock turned back into the living room to set the violin back in the worn case John had it in, and then stopped at the doorway when he saw John laying on the bed. His eyes took in the sewn up lacerations across the front of his body and the healing ones across his face. Moriarty had done enough to enrage Sherlock in ways that even he didn't fully grasp. He just knew that he wanted to make the man pay dearly for what he had done to John.

He watched John sleep for a bit longer before turning back into the living room. He looked absently at the couch for a brief moment and then back to the violin. Nobody worth talking to was awake, not even Irene at the hour, and Sherlock knew it. He would be bored until later once everyone finally woke up.

Or at least that's what he believed until he saw a stack of medical files on the side table near the couch. It was a small pile, but each had a single word on them: IMPORTANT. It was done in Molly's handwriting, a style that Sherlock could recognize for a considerable distance since he saw it quite a bit, but he couldn't grasp what made those files so significant that Molly would've taken the time to mark them.

Bored anyway, Sherlock sank down onto the couch and pulled the first file onto his lap. He was surprised to see the name on the coroner's report was Anderson. His eyebrows knit together at the name; he may not have gotten on with Anderson but he would never have honestly wished death on him. If anything, the man provided him with practice for any new insults he could think up.

Carefully Sherlock read every detail of the autopsy report, sometimes even reading a few things through twice just to be for certain. It appeared Lestrade identified the body, probably because his wife had finally discovered his affair with Sergeant Donovan and left him, and his family had relocated to halfway across England. Lestrade would be, obviously, the perfect choice to identify one of the men in his employ.

 

**Manner of Death:**  
HOMICIDE

**Immediate Cause of Death:**  
BULLET LODGED NEAR THE TOP OF THE SKULL; ENTRY ANGLE AND DEPTH INDICATE THE BULLET CAME FROM A LONG DISTANCE. POSSIBLE SNIPER ROUND(?)

 

Sherlock ground his teeth at the word "sniper." He thought that he had dispatched of the snipers that were a threat to those he knew, but apparently had others. He mentally scolded himself for not having realized that beforehand.

Finished with the file, Sherlock set it aside and grabbed another. This one was for Mike Stamford, an old friend of John's.

His cause of death was the same.

He grabbed another, and another, and another. The causes of death were all the same. And, better yet, every single one was someone they had known well and/or had helped them in their cases. It bothered him deeply that everyone they had been close to at any point in time had been killed by a sniper. Some of them he could see why they had been taken out since they were around them on at least a weekly basis - Anderson and Stamford mainly - but the others were people they'd had dealings with maybe just once. No one who would've been a threat to Moriarty's reign however.

Finally Sherlock picked up the final file and noticed something different about it. The word "important" had two exclamation points after it and was underlined sharply twice. He noted that the pencil used to make the word had been pressed down rather hard to make the letters bolder than on the other files.

He opened it to find a sheet of notebook paper taped delicately to the coroner's report; Molly wrote a short-hand note to John. Some of the letters had barely appeared and there were a few smudge marks on the edges of the paper. The date at the top of the note was from over two months ago, and it was all written in haste. Out of curiosity, Sherlock read the note.

 

John,  
I wanted to tell you this in person, but I'm afraid I no longer have the time to do so. People are coming for me in connection with Sherlock's death, and I don't know for how much longer my colleague can fend off the soldier at the door. Sherlock is alive; he used a drug called tetradotoxin. Many believe it to not work in the fashion that he made it, but this is Sherlock Holmes. Of course he made it work. I don't have time to tell you the rest of it, but I do hope you find him soon. Ask him then. Sorry, but I don't know where he is or I would have told you at the beginning. Goodbye John.  
Molly

 

Once Sherlock finished the note with a heart heavier than he thought he would have, he peeled it off of the coroner's report. His name, date of birth, the identifier of his body, and all the other general information was present, but where the details of his death should have been, only a single five-letter word resided scratched across the page.

A L I V E

His eyes stayed on the word for the longest time before he turned his attention back to the note. He skimmed over it again but felt no sadder or angrier for Molly's death. She was another on what was quickly becoming a long ledger of people he knew had been wrongfully taken down because of whatever connection they may have had to him or John. Perhaps he would avenge them, perhaps not. It wasn't quite clear yet.

Molly had done John a service by leaving him a note telling him that his best friend was still alive, though it appeared she chose her confession at an ill timed point. He still, however, found it a crying shame that she couldn't tell him in person. To be hunted down by someone he had obviously still been training - he had seen his manuscript for _The Science of Deduction_ on the couch earlier - and who was probably twice the detective he had been two years ago would've been fun. Sherlock almost regretted the turn in events that forced him to come back to London.

Regardless of the final service Molly had done both men, Sherlock decided it would be best for John to see the note after he told him himself. He slipped the file, note and all, under the middle couch cushion. John wouldn't notice the slight difference in that particular cushion since he normally sat in the spot that Sherlock now occupied on the left side of the couch, something the former detective had noticed when he first entered the home.

Sherlock placed the other files back onto the side table exactly as he found them so as to avoid a yelling match with John already. He then found himself bored; nothing better to do then to go to sleep at the time since he was now a fugitive and couldn't go running off to help Scotland Yard. So he crawled back into the bed next to John with the thin blanket pulled up to his chin.

Before he drifted off to sleep, Sherlock suddenly made a mental note of two things:

1) John's hair was shaggy and needed to be cut in the morning.  
2) John seemed much thinner than when they last saw each other, though he could attribute that to the imprisonment under Moriarty.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade...what does he see that Sherlock doesn't?

Two days had past since John and Sherlock both returned to their rightful places: John with the consulting soldiers and Sherlock at John's side. Finally, for the first time in those forty-eight hours, John was able to stand up without a searing pain rushing through him, and his legs were steady enough for him to walk though he often clutched at Sherlock's arm for balance if a shock ran through his legs. It was because of this reason that Sherlock very rarely left John's side while he was awake, even when he had to bathe or just sit down.

He also helped to change out John's bandages three times a day whenever Marie was busy with the surgery and couldn't get away to do so. It was during one of these times that Sherlock noticed something different about John's front. Other than the lacerations turning into dreadful scars, there seemed to be something missing. He gently ran the tips of his fingers over John's left shoulder. When questioned at what he was doing, he replied with quite a bit of confusion, "You had a scar here from Afghanistan. When you got shot." John looked down at his shoulder with a degree of surprise. "Where is it?"

John looked flustered for a moment, his eyes not leaving Sherlock's fingers still caressing his shoulder from front to back searching for the scar. Finally he managed out, "It, um, it faded. You know it wasn't big. I was surprised when I noticed it had gone too, but the doctor said it was normal for small scars like that to fade in a few years."

Sherlock, though skeptical about the answer, nodded. He had suffered scars when he was a child that had faded quickly enough, so he found no reason to disbelieve what his friend told him. He took his hand away from John's shoulder to wrap the fresh white bandages around his torso. "Most of them are closed you know," Sherlock stated. "You probably won't be needing these bandages for very much longer."

John smiled just a bit. "That's good. They're uncomfortable."

"I imagine so." Sherlock tied the bandages off and stood. He grabbed an ointment that was for John's face and rubbed it on for him against the protesting he got. When at last that had been complete, he smiled. "I'll get you a loose jumper." He turned to the small blue basket sitting next to John's bed and rifled through the clothes there. Most of the clothing were surprisingly black t-shirt and dark blue jeans. A few hideous jumpers that Sherlock recognized lay folded in the basket, but they appeared to be mostly untouched due to John's constant sneaking around.

At last, Sherlock picked up John's old Christmas jumper. He wanted to cringe at the horrid display of blue, red, and white, but didn't. John apparently still liked the bloody thing, or else it would have gotten tossed, like many "normal" appearing jumpers that John had thrown out after receiving them for Christmas or birthday gifts. So Sherlock turned back around and handed it to John.

"Here," he said plainly.

John chuckled as he slipped it on. "You know Sherlock, you don't have to help me with everything. I could've gotten this on my own."

Sherlock smirked as he pulled on a black collared shirt John happened to have in the basket. "Yes...just like you said you could make it to the bath last night."

The man turned red at his friend's words. John had really tried to make it to the bath on his own so that Sherlock could rest a bit before having to help him to bed, but he barely got out of his bed before a wave of pain hit him and he fell to the ground. Sherlock, who had been napping on the couch, had woken up immediately and actually carried him all the way to the bath and pretty much bathed him, even though John insisted he didn't need that much help.

"Whatever," John hissed. He slowly stood with Sherlock's arms hovering around him just in case and looked to his friend. "We should be going."

Sherlock nodded and followed John closely out of the small house and out into the mini-city.

Irene and some members of the "council" had organized a meeting to discuss how John had managed to escape the Parliament Building and the security measures Moriarty had in place, though John knew better than to think that would actually get covered. Sherlock Holmes, who should be deader than dead, was very much alive. People were excited, confused, and sometimes in near hysterics when they heard the news. He even seemed to have picked up a nick from the confessed Potterheads in the group: The Detective Who Lived. (Sherlock wasn't crazy about the title, but he couldn't exactly get people to stop; it was already stuck to him.)

Once the two were in the building set aside specifically for the meetings, and John was sitting - he was, in fact, the only one in the room sitting down; everyone else was standing around a table - sudden questions began to bombard Sherlock. Most, of course, centered around how he managed to live, though others were more around where he had managed to hide himself for two years without anyone reporting him alive.

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock answered. He looked to John, who was sitting in the chair to his left. "Right now, we have more pressing issues. Concerning Moriarty."

John nodded, but before he could speak, Hal spoke up, "How can it not matter?" He leaned forward, hands resting on the table. "Everyone wants to know how someone can live after jumping off of a hospital."

"It's not just that," Irene added. "Sherlock, you should be dead, no matter what drug you used to fake your pulse rate. Whatever you did, it might be helpful to us later."

Sherlock shrugged dismissively. "I highly doubt that. Unless you're planning on being buried alive that is."

"And that's something we want nothing to do with," a new voice announced. The man with silver-gray hair and a slightly wrinkled face smiled when everyone looked to him. His dark eyes lit up seeing Sherlock's face in front of him instead of in a picture in some newspaper article. "Been a while since I got to see you." He held out his hand for Sherlock to take.

Sherlock smirked slightly at Lestrade's entrance, but didn't shake his hand. "You only think it's been a while. In fact, I saw you two weeks ago in Dartmoor."

Lestrade laughed a bit. He would never admit it out loud, but he had missed that amazing skill Sherlock had for deduction. It was one of those things Scotland Yard needed most. "So I have it practically written on my forehead then?"

"No, I saw you...with an Inspector Hamish Cornwood."

Lestrade stopped laughing now and just stared at his old friend. "You were hiding out in Dartmoor this whole time? Do you how many times I've been there the past few years? Don't," he quickly added when Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, "it was a rhetorical question."

Sherlock smiled. "Too bad the Inspector dropped off the map; you would've had another London Detective Inspector."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "How do you know about that? We met in absolutely secrecy; no one knew about my promoting him except a few on my staff. One of them being Donovan, and I know she wouldn't have told you." He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for the clever answer Sherlock would give him through analysis of--

"Because I was there," Sherlock said with his voice a pitch higher than normal, "Detective Inspector."

Lestrade's eyes widened. He sounded just like the Inspector! "Wait! You?!" His mouth fell open slightly when Sherlock smiled. "No... You can't be..." Sherlock smiled wider. "That name would've given you away!"

Sherlock chuckled. "It would have if you had thought things through. Lucky for me, no one up at Scotland Yard has gotten much brighter. And before you say it, I know I look nothing like the Inspector, but that was nothing some stage makeup and temporary hair dye couldn't manage. Not to mention that itchy fake mustache... I can honestly say I'll never wear that again."

John, nearly as surprised as Lestrade appeared to be, looked up at his friend and said, "You were that man on all the papers? 'The Next Sherlock Holmes?'" Sherlock looked to him smiling. "That was **you**?"

Sherlock nodded. "Indeed. It was odd, I'll admit, but it was worth the oddity to be able to stop being bored for a bit everyday."

"Hamish though? My middle name?"

Sherlock's smile turned to a smirk. "A little tribute to you I suppose. The Cornwood part was random though. I had to come up with a surname on the spot. One that would be so awkward in the modern era that not even a clever police officer would think to question it. Perhaps I was the descendant of some dishonored nobility, or a soldier." He shrugged. "Either way, doesn't matter. Why are you here Lestrade?"

Lestrade walked further into the room. "I was told you were alive and that John," he went white as a sheet for only a short moment when he looked at John but Sherlock noticed it, "escaped Moriarty. I just, uh, wanted to say welcome back, and that I'll probably bring a few cases to you in the future if you're interested."

"Of course." When Lestrade stepped out, Sherlock politely excused himself to follow the Detective Inspector out. He grabbed Lestrade's shoulder to stop him. "Why did you pale when you looked at John earlier?"

"It was, um, his scars," he blustered out, "on his face. I heard Moriarty had done something to John, but I wasn't sure what. It was apparently worse than I would have thought."

Sherlock's eyebrows knit together. Lestrade was doing that thing he did when he lied rather blatantly. "You're lying. What's wrong?"

Lestrade shook his head. "It was just a trick of the light," he muttered. "Don't worry about it. Just help him get better." He turned and walked off before Sherlock could say anything more on the matter.

Sherlock watched his old friend go for a bit before he turned back into the building where John was now talking about his escape rather animatedly. He couldn't concentrate on the words though; he just stared at John's face, trying to find whatever it was, other than the scars, that had made Lestrade pale like that. But for the life of him, he couldn't find it. Perhaps Lestrade was right, and whatever he saw was simply just a trick of the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I did four chapters today, but this is now caught up with what's on deviantART. The next update will be when I actually finish chapter 11.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The pain that grips you/The fear that binds you/Releases life in me"_  
>  \--Evanescence -- _Understanding (Wash It All Away)_

Another week went by and John was seemingly back to his old self. He was walking around on his own again and insisting Sherlock not fret over every little thing he did. Some of the worse wounds he suffered still pained him, but he cared not about the mild pain. It always passed by soon enough.

As they were strolling through the mini-city to see if there was anything they could do to help, Marie ran out of the surgery and to John. "I know that you're still healing Doctor Watson, but I really need help! A lot of people got hurt yesterday in that ambush! I can't take care of it all myself, and the nurses only know so much!" She looked up at him with begging, pleasing eyes. She was at her wit's very end.

John's lips drew together in a straight line and he looked disappointingly down at his balled up hands. "I wish I could, but," he opened his fists to show his hands were trembling fiercely, "I haven't been able to steady them since I came back..." He looked back to his apprentice. "I can't be of much help."

Marie's face dropped as she nodded. She didn't want to train one of the nurses to help her, but it was looking as if she had no other choice. She turned and skulked back to the surgery.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he watched the girl go away. "John, your hands weren't shaking until now," he pointed out.

John sighed. "I know how this looks, but I can't go back in there yet. I can't see more right now..." He kept walking, not caring that he left his very confused friend behind.

Sherlock now turned his attention to John as he walked. He had an usual feeling of doubt that rested in the pit of his stomach, and he didn't like the feeling a bit. Doubt was never something Sherlock allowed himself to feel, not even for a slightest of moments. To have feelings of doubt towards the one man he knew as more than just data made him uneasy, and it didn't help that his mind kept going back to Lestrade's pale face a week prior.

When he was yelled at, Sherlock ran back to John's side. He figured he could worry on the matter soon enough, if there was anything to worry about.

Upon entering the small building that the council had met in before, John stepped to the table where Irene was standing over a list of duties and a map that either John or his second-in-command uselessly took care of. She looked up at them as they entered. "You two want something?"

John nodded once sharply. "Do we have anything simple up for today?"

"Not for you," she said simply. "You either need to be in the surgery or resting. You're in no condition to go out." She shook her head at him when he opened his mouth to argue. "Just don't John... Believe me," she pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans as it rang, "you're needed here. Excuse me." She answered the call with a slight smile as she stepped out of the small building.

Once she was out of the room, John moved over to the table to look at some of the available missions. Most were reconnaissance missions that required just a little more physical activity than he was willing to put into it right after his wounds healed, but there was a single one that seemed to be easy. A house breaking.

Sebastian Moran, the secretary to James Moriarty - as the statement said - was going to be the victim. Apparently he had some vital information concerning the Prime Minister's schedule.

John raised an eyebrow at the information. Moran had been a sniper in the army, the best in fact. It made no sense for him to be playing secretary for the Prime Minister. John turned and showed this to Sherlock, who seemed a bit skeptical that they should be going out. Then again, he was bored.

Sherlock let a tiny smirk play his lips and he nodded. "Fine. I'll go send the woman elsewhere." He stepped out of the building as Irene hung up her phone and let out a sigh. He studied her features, trying to guess at what it might be that was bothering her about a call she seemed so happy about, but in her true fashion, Sherlock could not read her. He did, however, ask if that was her husband she had just spoken to.

"Wife actually." She looked to him. "You and John are going anyway, aren't you?"

"Of course," he replied.

"Protect him," Irene said firmly. "He's the only surgeon we can trust fully." She didn't think that Marie was bad, per se, but she wasn't sure of the girl's full skill set. It worried her.

Sherlock smirked just a bit. "You shouldn't worry about that. I won't let anything happen to him that I can stop." He turned and walked back into the building as she walked around the corner to attend to another matter that had been brought to her while she was still leading the group. He smiled at John when he reentered the building and told him that it was clear.

John nodded; he followed Sherlock out of the building and quickly made his way towards the exit as his friend ran back to John's "home" to retrieve his coat and scarf. By the time Sherlock returned, John was waiting impatiently by the exit, and he nearly ran out the moment he could. It was exciting for them both to finally be able to get out and about again!

Once outside, Sherlock clapped a deer stalker he found on John's head to hide his face, and practically forced him to put on his trench coat. He wasn't sure what had come over John but he should've known better than to parade around right after his escape. Moriarty had to be looking for him; he wasn't just someone to let something like an escaped prisoner go.

\--

About a two blocks away from Northumberland Street, a normal appearing brick building stood. Three flats occupied the building; on the ground floor, the second floor, and the basement. It was the flat on the ground floor that Sherlock and John found themselves breaking into.

Sherlock looked around as John forced the lock on the flat's door. Once it gave way, the two ran into the apartment and locked the door behind them just in case Moran decided to come back.

They immediately got to looking through the front room. The cushions on the sofa were overturned; all the drawers from the desk and end tables were set aside; some boxes that were left unpacked were open and being rifled through; a bag had been dumped of all its contents; and a suitcase from his work was laying open. In the suitcase, John happened upon a small black, leather bound date book, and flipped through it.

"Sherlock," John stepped over to his friend, "look at this."

Sherlock bowed his head over the book to analyze it with John. All of Moriarty's appointments were logged, even ones that hadn't happened yet. One of them was a lunch appointment with the German ambassador for the next day. Sherlock smirked and looked up at John. "We can have a team ambush them tomorrow." He watched John's face as he continued to flip through the appointment book, and he smiled. He suddenly remembered why it was that sometimes he just felt the most wonderful thing for his best friend.

But he didn't feel it now, and it made him frown with concern. Why didn't he feel the same?

Suddenly though, John screamed and dropped the appointment book. Before he asked what had caused the scream, Sherlock bent over and picked the book up.

_WATCH YOUR BACK_

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. It was a warning, possibly for Moriarty as it was still in the same handwriting that had written the appointments, but it hadn't been scrawled in haste. Whoever wrote it had the time to sit and write it perfectly; there were even erasure marks where Moran had corrected himself. "John, what's the problem? This is a valuable clue," he pointed out.

"Sherlock," John said with a trembling voice, "I saw that same warning just before--" He wasn't allowed to finish as a _bang_ rang out and a bullet sailed through the living room window into John's shoulder.

Sherlock dropped the appointment book and caught John as he fell, kneeling down with him in his arms. As he watched John's face contort into one of agony, and saw blood pumping out of the bullet wound, he screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will take a while since it's going to be a long one.


End file.
